In the Sunshine of Your Name
by nachalainne
Summary: A personal interpretation of the death of Benjy Fenwick, member of the Order of the Phoenix. This was spawned from a roleplay, so it's possible that some details may seem unclear or absent. Sincerest apologies.


"I can't believe you honestly thought Benjy was going to freak out when you told him about us." Sunlight poured into the open kitchen through both the side door and the curtain-framed window over the sink. In all the many times Tristan had come to this house, he had never once seen the curtains actually closed during the day, even when it was cloudy outside. Maybe it was just a quirk of theirs, but Benjy and Emmeline seemed almost addicted to those warm amber rays, coaxing them cheerfully into their home, even in the depth of winter when everything around them seemed barren and desolate. They were so vibrant, which was very clearly reflected in the bright furnishings of their small London home. Everywhere you looked bright blues and oranges leapt out at you – from the wallpaper, from the upholstery, everything seemed to reflect the light they adored: the light that radiated in their faces when they were with each other.

Tristan smiled gently to himself as he watched Emme's face. She was lost in thought, smiling wistfully as she thought of her long-time boyfriend and other half. Benjy was working – proudly serving the Ministry of magic in one of those stereotypical nine to five jobs that made Tristan gag. One of the few times he was proud to be a pureblood, and therefore guaranteed an inheritance that prevented him from ever having to an honest day's labour, was when he considered the boring activities his friends were forced into on a daily basis. Of course, all things considered they seemed perfectly content with what they did. Benjy never muttered a complaint about submitting to the government, and Emme – as far as Tristan could recall – did something with books, so he doubted she would ever have a single discrepancy with it. Give Emmeline a book and she was distracted for hours – or less, if she felt like reading quickly. The only thing – well, person rather – that he had ever seen actually have the ability to distract her from a good novel was one Benjamin Fenwick, and even he found it difficult sometimes. For someone who only liked books for the pretty colours and occasionally sex-inspiring words, Tristan really couldn't understand where she was coming from, but always opted to spare himself the headache of trying to understand by giving her the benefit of the doubt.

"Some of us aren't as self-confident as you are," she answered with a scoff. "And it was surprising – why should he still want me after I've been in your arms?" She didn't mean it to be brutal, of course – Emmeline could never be cruel to Tristan. It was just another quote in their unending verbal war of mockery. Besides – there were very few people in the world with more ego than Tristan Avery, and his could afford the light bruising.

"You wound me," he answered sarcastically, dramatically burying his face in his arms. It would have been a very fitting gesture, if in the process he hadn't knocked over the tea cup in front of him, spilling the warm dregs out across the table cloth and sending very fine china tumbling to the floor. Wincing, he looked up, peeking through the curtain of dark hair that had fallen in front of his face. "Oops?" he added, grinning and giving her that look of a child who had just been caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

Try as she might, it was impossible to be mad – or even annoyed – with Tristan when he turned those heavenly green eyes on her. Instead she laughed, waving her dismissively as Tristan dabbed at the tea stain with a small, white napkin. "Sometimes I wonder about your bloodlines," she muttered, picking the now fully repaired cup off the floor. Tapping the table gently, the stain and residue vanished beneath the soaked towelette. "It's like you forget you have a wand."

Tristan frowned, eyes narrowing as he looked up at her. "My sincerest apologies, I didn't know it was necessary to jump for my wand after a tiny spill." His tone was bitter, but not hurtfully so. His ability to use a wand was just a sore subject for him, his one weak spot, as it were, and one he preferred to avoid when he could help it. "Now I'm better warned, in the event of a future predicament." Even while they were at school he hadn't been much for the important things like classes. Anything that required the use of a wand meant his classmates doing it a hundred times better than he could ever dream of, and after four years of constantly being in the bottom half of the class, he failed to see any point in trying. He had other skills, talents that he had gradually become very aware of and was now very good at, and they satisfied him more than the ability to wave around a magical stick and think some fancy latin incantation. He left that to the people who enjoyed it, and stepped out of the spotlight whenever serious wand work was involved. It didn't help that some of the most capable witches and wizards of his generation were in his year, such as Lucius Malfoy and Amelia Bones, head boy and girl in their own right, but there was also Fabian Prewett and Bellatrix Black – both incredibly talented, if in unbelievably different ways.

"Oh, Tristan… I was joking," Emmeline chided, her happy laughter having long died away and the normally bubbly expression on her face slightly soured. She should have known better – she knew he didn't take well to jibes about wand magic – but it was hard believe sometimes that a man like Tristan, so obviously gifted in so many other ways, could be brought to heel by something so trivial. He had everything else: the looks, the money, the wit, and truth be told he wasn't as bad at wand work as he thought he was, but it never seemed to be enough for him. When he was reminded of his imperfection, it only depressed him, a fact that she attributed entirely to the people he spent most of his time with.

For the majority of their friends, life hadn't changed much after Hogwarts. They were all still remarkably close to one another, spoke and saw each other on a regular basis with only a few exceptions. Likewise, Tristan continued to come visit, though he still maintained ties to his former house-mates, despite the warning Emmeline and Benjy had given him about their dark activities. Throughout school she had always suspected Lucius Malfoy of being involved in very illegal forms of magic, but she didn't have an ounce of evidence to prove it, and she suspected – correctly so – that anyone who did wouldn't have the spine to report it. It wasn't really their fault – Lucius Malfoy was a terrifying person, even as an eighteen year old, and now – four years later – he was just as frightening, but with the added bonus of being incredibly influential in all the right circles.

Her disgust must have shown through on her face as she was thinking, based on the forlorn tenor of Tristan's sigh. He leaned back in his chair, legs splayed out underneath the table as his dark robes fell gracefully across his body. He didn't say anything, just looked up at the ceiling, staring blankly at the circle patterns stuccoed in the white plaster. He was actually somewhat surprised that the ceiling had managed to stay white after half a decade of Emmeline's home improvements – her favourite colours were everywhere else, why not the ceiling too?

"It soaks up the paint. The colour wouldn't stick," she answered, as if reading the question in his quizzical expression. It was amazing how in tune they could be with one another sometimes. They had known each other for so long it seemed, seen the good and the bad, and somehow managed to live through being on opposite sides of what felt like a very deep ocean. It was sort of surprising, the way she continued to put up with him and the way her naïve optimism. They complained unendingly about one another of course, but it never affected their actual relationship. They were friends – very good friends – despite it all.

Again, it was though she knew what was on his mind without even having to ask, though she may have had an unfair advantage, considering how often it was on hers. "I really wish you wouldn't talk to them," she commented softly, holding a cup of tea tightly between her hands as she leaned against the counter. Her wide, grey eyes were concerned rather than reproachful as she watched him, taking in the changes in his appearance. They had grown so much in such a short time, but even the most subtle differences were noticeable. He was taller, for one, and more muscular than he had been in school – though just as unfairly good-looking as he had been then. She had filled out her curves as much as she ever was going to by the time sixth year rolled around, but he – he looked so much more like a man than she remembered. In her mind he was still every inch that sweet boy that she had first talked to sometime during her fourth year, distracted, entranced and eventually seduced by those glorious emerald eyes that now stared reproachfully up at her.

"You know I can't do that," he answered with a frown. He couldn't count the number of times they'd had these argument, sometimes peacefully, sometimes very violently. The most outstanding had been when Emmeline, in a fit of temper, had chucked a plate at his head, and only six years worth of reflexes as a keeper had saved it from splintering across his face. Ever since then they had both been far more guarded with their comments on the subject, but it wasn't enough to prevent tempers from flaring from time to time. "Emmeline – it would be as good as a death sentence, and I'm not fond of suicide." His gaze had softened, tone casual despite the morbidity of his words.

It was the unfortunate truth. He knew far too much about his former housemates than perhaps even Emme realised, and turning against them now – even joining the Order of the Phoenix, would only put him and anyone else he spoke to at risk, including her. Staying loyal to what she considered to be the bad side was the only way to prevent his own death, and unlike some of his more passionate Gryffindor friends – he felt that living without dignity was better than not living.

"It doesn't have to be!" she answered quickly, having repeated her argument a hundred times before now. "You could go into hiding! There are a dozen ways. Charms, enchantments – they would work!" Her tone was imploring; it was the only thing that seemed to have any effect on him, even though he never gave in to her pleas. "The Fidelius charm—"

He cut her off before she could even finish. "And who's supposed to be my secret keeper?" he asked, his expression cynical and his voice disapproving.

"Well… me," she answered honestly, taken aback as ever by the curtness of his remarks.

"And when the Death Eaters come for you, when they torture Benjy to death and everyone else you know in front of your eyes to get to me, then what will you do?" There was nothing in his response anymore, just a blank logic that even a Ravenclaw couldn't argue with. "They don't like being challenged, Em – and they're not going to stop at anything to win if you do."

She bit her lip, dying to tell him she didn't care – her life was forfeit if it meant she could protect him, help him – if it meant saving the good man she knew he was from the bad influences he was surrounded by; it wouldn't matter. But this was the same way their conversation had gone time and time again, and it never changed. She would say that he was worth the sacrifice. He would answer that Benjy wouldn't agree with that. She would reply that Benjy would survive. He would point out that there was a good chance he wouldn't. It was just a miserable tug of war that never got anywhere, and it pained her to know there was nothing she could do about it.

"Just give up, Em…" It was his turn to be pleading. He hated the way she pressured him, not because he was averse to the demand, but because he didn't want to see that hurt look in her eyes. She was the bubbly one – always bright and cheerful and happy, there was no reason for to even give him and his future a second thought. "It's not worth it."

She glared, smoky eyes narrowing sharply. "Not worth it?" she repeated, tone getting steadily angrier with each word. "Of course it's bloody worth it!" she exploded, tea cup completely forgotten in her hands. Only when the now-cool liquid sloshed over her skin did she glance down, confused for a brief moment as she wondered what happened before she saw the half-empty cup. Setting it down on the counter she dried off her hand on a dish towel, lifting the clean one to her temples and rubbing lightly with her thumb and middle finger. These conversations never ended well. "I'm sorry," she consented after a long pause.

"Don't be," he answered. "I should be thankful that someone actually cares about me. Even if she's an idiot for doing it," he added with a half-smile. "Though I guess the Gryffindors would call that bravery."

She returned his smile, mouth curling upwards despite the reasonably depressed look in her eyes. Try as he might, that was one thing Tristan could never manage to remove. He could make her laugh, he could maker her smile, he could make her unbearably angry – but he could never through all of it get rid of that disappointed glimmer, and he wasn't willing to do the one thing that would guarantee it be erased. "No, it's definitely idiocy," she answered with a soft chuckle.

He laughed with her, green eyes twinkling. It was moments like this that he never wanted to end – but despite his deepest desires, they always did. For once, at least, he was going to be responsible for putting an end to the merriment. Having even just that brief moment of control was enough for now. "Well…" he responded quietly, linking his hands and stretching his arms far above his head. His back gave a few brief pops as it arched against the tension of having been seated for so long. "I should probably be going." His mouth opened in a wide yawn, blink as the afternoon sun dropped far enough in the sky to sparkle obnoxiously in his face. "Gah! I'm blind!" His hands shot to his face, sealing out the horrendous orange – so strong for just before four – glare that threatened to break through his fleshy blindfold. Standing up, his chair made an awful squeaking noise as he pushed it back with his legs, stumbling towards the side-door than opened into Emmeline's garden. Slowly, he lowered his hands, blinking as his eyes readjusted to the dimmer light of the kitchen. He couldn't tell if it was his scorched corneas or just the sun, but everything seemed to be painted a dull amber – gold almost in some places where the light was brightest. It was appropriate. There was nothing better to mimic the colour of sunshine than sunshine itself.

Naturally, Emme only laughed at him, like a pealing bell her voice echoed around the cheery kitchen and filled its small space with her warmth. As Tristan turned around, hand reaching for the doorknob, he could only wonder when he'd be able to hear something that beautiful again. Laughter – innocent, gentle laughter – wasn't very common amongst his other friends. Only Narcissa could match that tone, and he was far too much of a coward to go anywhere near her.

"Alright," she answered, not bothering to hide her disappointment at his impending departure. "Come back soon, alright?"

He smiled, turning his face to her before nodding briefly. "Of course. As soon as I can." Without further hesitation, he pulled the white wooden door open, stepping out into the excruciatingly vivid light that blanketed Emme's garden in its harsh glow. Emmeline's kitchen may have been bright, but it was nothing compared to this – outdoors. He leaned forward, barely focusing on his destination as he stepped into the apparition. It wasn't exactly the safest thing to do, but apparition didn't involve a wand, and therefore wasn't nearly as complicated as other things. With a familiar pop, the garden and Emmeline's sweet face vanished behind him, quickly replaced by nondescript grey buildings and a dreary alleyway.

To a muggle it would have seemed like any other cramped London street, with old cobblestones and dark shadows that would have deterred all but the bravely idiotic. To a wizard who knew what he was looking for, it was the cleverly disguised entrance to the most important governmental building in the wizarding world. To be honest, he could have apparated directly into the building – but that left so much to chance that a suitably paranoid person like Tristan wasn't willing to deal with. This way may have taken more time, may have cost him a little extra effort, but it also gave him the option of a reasonably discreet entrance and time enough to see what was around him before he really stepped into anything. Murmuring all the necessary information, he stepped through the dusty glass, past the vanished mannequin and into the central atrium of the Ministry of Magic.

* * *

There was no denying it: Benjy Fenwick loved his job. It wasn't anything powerful, or commanding, nothing so grand. It was important, however, at least as far as he was concerned – and for his many charges, it was easily the most critical job in the entire establishment. As he locked the door of his office behind him, Benjy reached up to brush a stray feather out of his hair, smiling cheerfully as the soft down tickled his nose on its way past. He had always known what he wanted to do after Hogwarts – well, maybe not do, but he knew he wanted to be involved with magical creatures, and caring for the Ministry's owls seemed like a reasonably respectable job. Owl-feeder was the technical term, but he was really more of a caretaker, the birds' guardian, if you will. The only owl-related thing he wasn't responsible for was the clean-up – for which he thanked Merlin profusely. They may have been delightful creatures, but they sure left one hell of a mess.

Moseying along, he nodded to the folks he knew and waved a cheerful goodbye to almost everyone else. Very few people begrudged Benjy Fenwick anything, and not because he was particularly smart, or wealthy, or powerful – because there was very little bad that could be said about him. Benjy Fenwick was a sweetheart through and through, a gentile and loveable man that just preferred peace and simplicity to the hostility that was brewing all around him. He was, according to his friends – and his girlfriend – adorable, which was as fitting a descriptor as any.

"See you tomorrow, Tinsey!" he called out, smiling broadly as he passed a venerable looking old warlock with a thin, white face. Beneath the fold of skin the seemed to droop over him like an English bulldog, it was almost possible to detect a strange tightening around his mouth, as if he was trying to smile, but didn't quite have enough muscle for all of his flimsy skin. "Tomorrow, Fenny, m'boy!" he agreed in a high, reedy voice. He didn't doubt it for a minute – Benjy Fenwick didn't miss a day of work for anything.

Following the slow moving crowd into the wide Atrium, he looked up at the brilliant golden statues and glass-fronted offices that overlooked the spacious room. Those particular rooms belonged the higher-ups, much more important people than Benjy Fenwick, jobs that doubted he could have ever gotten and honestly, didn't really want. There was too much riding on the people in those offices, and the stress was something he was very happy to go without. Because of his distracted staring, he didn't notice the person who casually bumped into him from the side, didn't bother looking for an apology, and wouldn't have known who to give it to if he'd tried. Needless to say, the fellow who accidentally hit him wasn't so blind.

"Well, well – Benjy Fenwick." Benjy looked around, struggling to pin the voice to one among the mass of bodies that surrounded him. Before he knew it, a man was walking in step beside him, not breaking stride, just keeping the slow, even pace of the slowly dispersing crowd. Thankfully, it was a face he very easily recognised from repeated visits to his own home, and seven years of schooling. They may not have been in the same house – but in their last few years together they did become rather decent friends, a detail Benjy doubted he would ever regret. Directly to his right, Tristan Avery's incredibly handsome face greeted him with an open, indulgent smile.

"Hallo, Tristan!" he answered with a grin. "What brings you to the Ministry today?" It didn't matter that Tristan didn't work there, all the pureblood heirs spent a fair amount of time within the underground building, negotiating contracts on behalf of their families and influencing important people. Getting personally involved was the only way to make the right connections, Benjy knew, even if he had know idea how exactly one would go about doing it. He didn't doubt Tristan was here on some similar sort of business.

Tristan smiled warmly, eyes glowing merrily. "Business, as usual. Attending to boring things one behalf of my father." His tone was casual, despite the lack of detail in his explanation. There was only so much schmoozing one innocent, former Hufflepuff could comprehend, and Benjy had heard an earful and then some on the subject from Tristan a dozen times already. "On my way out now, actually," he added. "I was thinking about getting a drink, care to join me?"

Benjy gave him a sceptical look. "Tristan, it's only four o'clock."

"Oh, tsh. It's five o'clock on the continent, and at the dive I had in mind, people have been drinking since noon. Are you in, or no?"

Benjy hesitated, mouth twisting into a ponderous frown as he considered. He kind of wanted to go home and see Emmeline, but he didn't get to talk to Tristan that often, so the pros of both sides were weighing out judiciously in his head. It was early to be drinking, but he supposed one pint wasn't going to make much of a difference. Neither would an hour, if he went with Tristan and put off returning to Emmeline. She was probably busy anyway, and didn't expect him back until five. As much as he had wanted to surprise her, he'd probably only be interrupting. Truth be told, there wasn't much of a down-side – if you could call missing your girlfriend after not having seen her for seven hours a down-side at all. It would be nice to get out somewhere with Tristan, catch up on the things he missed in Emmeline's brief comments. Yes, to be honest, going out for a drink seemed to be like a very good idea.

"You know?" he answered, frown reversing into his customary cheery grin, "I think I will join you. You can tell me about all this boring Ministry stuff while I forget it all over a chilled tankard." His eyes twinkled with mirth at the comment. It didn't matter what Tristan told him – tipsy or sober, he barely understood a lick of it, and honestly, didn't really care to.

"Excellent!" Tristan replied, clapping him on the shoulder and steering him towards the entrance – now an exit – that he had used earlier. "It's only a couple of streets away from here, so let's walk." Unlike with Benjy, the crowd seemed to part around Tristan, giving him more room to manoeuvre and push through, rather than waiting patiently behind the mob. Patience was not his forte, by any account. He kept his hand firmly in place, half-driving Benjy, half making sure he didn't lose the fellow amidst the chaos. It was simultaneously the Atrium's worst flaw and best advantage: that it was always too crowded to do anything, but impossible to notice if anything did happen. No one would recognise a naked veela sprinting through the fountain if it weren't for that unnatural attraction she would have on people.

Tristan didn't let go until they were safely outside of the reflective metal barrier, turning to look at Benjy with a wide smile. "It's strangely busy in there today, isn't it?" he asked, now that he could actually hear himself speaking. "I don't think I've ever seen the Ministry so crowded."

"It's been like this a lot, lately," Benjy answered. "The owls have been working twice as hard, delivering memos. Poor things are starving by meal time. We should probably get a few dozen more if this keeps up."

"Right, I was going to ask about your children," Tristan joked, chuckling lightly as he began walking up the alleyway. In truth, he could smell the owls on Benjy now, which was a bit nauseating, seeing as he didn't have a heightened sense of small. Then again – maybe the birds trusted Benjy more when he shared their pungent aroma. He didn't really look like the feather-bags, so Tristan imagined he had to have something in his favour. His nose just wished it wasn't scent.

Benjy laughed comfortably beside him as he followed along. "My children are all remarkably well – very happy. A bit over-worked, I'll grant you, but nothing too serious." The smile on his face widened at the humour. This was why he liked Tristan: the man was always good for a chuckle. "So what's this place we're going?" he asked casually, sort of intrigued by the prospect of a bar that was open early enough to treat customers at noon.

"Oh, just some quiet little pub on Drayrah Lane. Of course, to the Irish it's _idreary/i_," he commented with a soft snort, repeating the word with a rather close accent. "Bit dark down there, but I doubt the people coming out would ever notice, considering their condition." Tristan had never hid the fact that he liked to drink – at any time, any substance, with anyone. As far as he knew, Benjy was no lightweight – but next to him, anything short of Irish blood would be irrelevant. Which, to be honest, was his second reason for wanting to wander into an Irish pub in the middle of the afternoon: they wouldn't be too sauced to not be able to fight, but not sober enough to resist a drinking contest. His first reason had been the quiet locale, but it paled in comparison.

"Well here's to making dreary a bit more cheery," Benjy answered with a laugh.

Tristan's mouth split open, white teeth glinting in the dying sunlight. Tilting his head back, he laughed openly, low voice resounding against the warm brick that surrounded them. "Clever," he said, after his merriment, "but Benj—" He used an even shorter form of Benjy's name for familiarity. "Are you sure you haven't been at the bottle already?"

"I assure you, I have not," Benjy answered calmly, "I'm just inebriated by nature. Happiness makes me giddy." It was partially true. He was happiest around Emmeline, and Emmeline made him giddy. You didn't have to be a genius to figure out that when 'a' is 'b' and 'b' is 'c', then 'a' most certainly is 'c' as well.

"Well's here's hoping giddiness doesn't impair your drinking," Tristan retorted with a smug smile. "I've got to have someone to talk to that inn't Irish." The language slur had nothing to do with alcohol, though they were both acting a bit tipsy. There was no harm in being mistaken for a drunken person when you were sober, it just showed they were having a good time and enjoying themselves – which was precisely when Benjy had set out to do in the first place. The atmosphere was comfortably relaxed as the ambled down the street, taking the corner at Drayrah Lane, just as Tristan had mentioned, which was thankful considering the way the street suddenly narrowed, dark shadowing filling the alley and shunning the sun. It wasn't really comparable to Emmeline's garden, considering it was really the antithesis of her and Benjy's home. There was nothing similar about the two places – everything contrasted, and sharply, but somehow – Tristan liked them both about the same.

Stopping in front of a darkened stairwell that led to a below-ground door, Tristan pursed his lips surveying the obvious lack of recognisable advertisement or any other indication that place was even inhabited, much less a functioning pub. Then again, the good places were always horribly sketchy looking on the outside. "Well, this is it," he told the rather unshakable Benjy Fenwick. "Fourth door on the left, Drayrah Lane. Looks inviting, dunn't?" Another slip, slightly more inclined to a lack of confidence than comfort.

Benjy shrugged, slightly wary of the darkened passage, but most of London was like that – all things considered, there was probably nothing special about this place. Besides – as far as he was aware, the Irish liked to keep trespassing by others to a minimum, so it was really no surprise that the entrance to a stolidly Irish pub would be as unremarkable as a magical hotspot. "No harm in trying," he answered.

Tristan looked at him, grin stretching from one side of his face to the other. "That's the ticket!" He danced lightly down the steps to the door, noticing immediately that there was no service window, he tried the handle – and found it somewhat unsurprisingly unlocked. Pushing it open, he stepped over the threshold, the doorframe just barely surpassing his own height. The inside was exactly the image he was looking for. All around him crowds of red-faced, red-haired men (and some women) sat at tables with bottles between them, laughing and smoking merrily. There wasn't a notion of discomfort in the place, and judging by the lack of a reaction to his entrance, no one seemed to care. Evidently strange people turning up randomly wasn't anything out of the ordinary. With a grin, he held the door open for Benjy, who – being a good four or five inches taller than Tristan – actually had to duck to get underneath it. Thankfully, the ceiling of the room opened up a bit, even if there was a thin haze of smoking clouding together a few inches from the top.

As Benjy stepped past him, Tristan let the door close, amazed at the quiet way it slid shut. Everything from the inside seemed such more welcoming than the outside, which was almost frightening. This was what he looked for in bars, a nice, cosy environment where he could drink to his heart's content and his liver's destruction with a good friend for company. The only thing left to test was the quality of the liquor, and after the fourth drink even that wouldn't matter anymore. It was wonderful what alcohol could do for a person. Throughout his life, it had always served Tristan well, and he could only hope that now would be yet another one of those times.

Weaving his way between the tables, he made his deftly to the bar, Benjy moving along a bit more slowly behind him. The disadvantage with height was a natural clumsiness, though if you stuck him on a broom you'd never guess, but on the ground Benjy moved as carefully as was reasonable for a man of his size. Still, the Irish were never particularly tall, and neither was Tristan, so he was easily the loftiest person in the room. Settling on an open stool to one end of the dingy counter, he looked to Tristan, waiting to see what kind of drink he was going for before he got one himself. He wasn't much for competition outside the world of Quidditch, but he really wasn't up for downing something pansy while Tristan lapped up the hard stuff. He had already trumped Benjy with the remark about it being five o'clock on the continent, so he was a little bit more eager than usual to not see it happen again.

Tristan leaned happily forward, his long torso almost covering the distance from his own seat to wear the alcohol was kept. Quick green eyes took in everything that was available, as his lips pursed together, contemplating his choice. "I'll have… the Jameson original – preferably 1959 if you have it." The bar tender gave him a curious look, on eyebrow slightly raised in his freckled face. Obviously Tristan knew what he was talking about when it came to good whiskey, though his pretty boy appearance didn't openly show it. To be honest, Tristan had been robbing his father's liquor cabinet and wine cellar since he was about eight, and being a very curious child, had quickly developed a taste for what was good over what was disturbingly bad. Surveying the bar tender with those dangerously entrancing eyes, Tristan blinked once, very slowly and spoke his following comment with all the articulation of a pureblood aristocrat. "Now, rather than soon, if you would be so kind." Immediately the man snapped out of his haze and fetched a glass, glancing over the usual, small size without any prompting. From his place at the bar, Tristan smiled broadly.

As the man returned with Tristan's drink, which he immediately dipped into, he threw a cautious glance at Benjy, wondering if would prove as demanding and thorough as the first funny-eyed young rascal had been. Naturally, Benjy was nothing of the sort, and politely requested a good, clean and cheap-as-they-come single-malt. With a small sigh of relief, the bar tender spun around again, pulled up a bottle, poured it in a normal glass, and handed it across the counter to him, wiping the table top with a dirty little rag for a moment before scurrying away. Tristan may not have been very intimidating during school, but he had certainly picked up a few tricks since then.

"Are you alright?" Benjy asked carefully, glancing sideways at his companion as he took a tender sip. Almost immediately, he could feel the burn settling across his mouth and throat. Tristan, who had already inhaled about a fourth of his drink, seemed entirely unperturbed, though his smile had become significantly less pronounced.

He shrugged, taking a large sip again. "Fine, why d'you ask?"

"I donno," Benjy answered, staring into his drink. "You just seem a bit… off, that's all." Off wasn't the right word. Changed would have been closer to the truth.

Tristan's mouth twitched slightly, eyes going blank as he sipped again. After a slight pause, he sighed, mouth relaxing into the broad grin from before. "Apologies… forced influence, I suppose. I'm finding it difficult not to be tense these days." He lifted his glass in an obvious show of what he was doing to relieve his stress. "And I may be developing an alcohol addiction," he added with a chuckle.

Benjy frowned. It was unfortunate, but for once he knew exactly what Tristan was referring to. He figured the poor man got it from Emmeline enough, but Benjy couldn't help but agree voluntarily and whole-heartedly with his girlfriend on that count. Tristan's other friends were bad news – the worst news, and Benjy only hoped for his sake that he would quit them as the earliest possibility. He laughed, even if it was a bit strained, as Tristan's addendum. "Well," he replied, "you did seem a mite excited about that drink." That very large drink, he added silently in his head.

With a wink, Tristan took another sip. He had every intention of getting completely sauced, and he was sort of hoping Benjy would join him. He would, of course, make a point to continue refilling Benjy's cup, even when it wasn't completely empty, and then down everything he had as a chaser to the action. He really was feeling incredibly tense, maybe this would be appropriate medicine. Lifting his hand, he motioned to the freshly opened Jameson, and gave the bar tender a soft glare. Within seconds the bottle was sitting in front of him. He capped off his own glass.

"So, Benjy," he began, putting one foot on the back of a nearby chair as he faced his friend smiling. "Anything new in your life that I won't have heard about from Emmeline?" He took a sip again, feeling the liquor run smoothly down his throat, leaving only the hot flavour on his tongue.

Benjy adopted a pensive expression, as if giving the subject careful consideration. A few moments later, he answered: "I doubt that's possible, but I'll try." A soft smirk lit his face. Taking something of a gulp, he waited for the fire to recede from his chest before he answered again. "Well, I got something of a raise… I guess they think it's as stressful on me taking care of the owls as it is on the owls themselves. It's not much, but a raise is a raise." He paused, thinking. "I might be training with an amateur Quidditch team, starting this weekend. They needed a third chaser, and since I've got a pretty decent broom I told them I'd love to give it a try." His smile widened as he spoke, a faint splash of colour in his cheeks. He could feel the whiskey coursing through him, but his head was still clear. He had managed to finish half a glass remarkably fast, at least – for him.

Grinning, Tristan reached over and refilled his cup before Benjy could stop him, performing what he considered to be a cardinal sin in the process – mixing the good stuff with absolute crap. "Good, good," he replied. "I'm happy for you. I bet that raise will be nice to have."

"Oh, I'm really happy about it," Benjy answered immediately, suddenly feeling very relaxed. "I mean, Em makes a decent amount of money, but it's nice to pulling in the extra, y'know?" He took another sip, and was somewhat surprised to find that he could taste an obvious difference in his first drink and the blended flavour that now assaulted his taste buds. It was still warm, slightly less than the first, but he suspected that had more to do with having already about four shots worth of whiskey than the temperature actually being cooler. Still, there was no sting to this stuff – and he sort of liked it. A breezy, cheerful feeling overtook him, and he laughed again.

Seconds became minutes and minutes became hours as they sat there chatting idly, Tristan refilling each of their glasses when the time came. He didn't need to spare another glance for the bar tender, who had learned very quickly that the easiest way to avoid Tristan's eyes was to not leave him wanting. That, of course, resulted in a fresh bottle of 1959 Jameson Original sitting on the counter between them before the first one even ran out. If Benjy had the brain capacity to calculate after his fourth or fifth cup, he would have guessed – either from the miserable look on the man's face, or the four bottles stacked in front of them, that his supply was getting rather low. If this was the best, which Tristan assured him it was, then it would be very rare, and in high demand. As it was, he couldn't tell – and Tristan didn't seem to care.

Tristan's tense behaviour had melted away halfway through the second bottle, along with Benjy's reserve. Benjy wasn't a heavy drinker, but he would normally hold his own reasonably well. In this, however, there seemed to be nothing to hold against. Tristan just kept refilling and chattering away, filling the gaps in Benjy's conversation – which were surprisingly few – and moving it along when one subject seemed to have been worn out. Intoxicated as they were, both men had wide, cheerful smiles on their faces. This was the good life: good company, good conversation, and most importantly good, clean Irish whiskey.

"My mother's Irish, you know," Tristan commented as he licked the edge of his glass. He had balanced a piece of ice on the edge, and as it slowly melted around the rim, the water dribbled down on both sides, despite his attempts to collect each individual drop with his tongue.

"Oh, really?" Benjy asked, slightly cross-eyed and as red as the hair of the man sitting behind him.

"O'Reilly, actually," Tristan correct, in all seriousness. There was a moment's pause before they both broke out in raucous laughter. By that point the rest of the bar had begun to ignore them altogether, perfectly accepting of the two sauced Englishmen – even if one was half-Irish. They seemed to be civil enough, and they were going to be contributing a great deal of money to the bar's till tonight, so no one had any really worthwhile complaints.

After their laughter settled down, Tristan drained the last of glass, and subsequently the last of the fourth bottle, and turned to look at Benjy, an appreciative, happy glimmer in his eyes. "This has been fun," he said bluntly, a bit more out of observation than as a directed compliment.

"It 'as," Benjy agreed, having lost the ability to fully articulate about two and a half cups ago. "We should dowis again sometime." He paused, aware of there being something wrong with his sentence, but unable to figure out exactly what. His eyes narrowed, brows furrowed in concentration.

With a soft chuckle, Tristan nodded his head, grin fading down to a soft smile. "We should." He paused. "We should," he said again, putting the emphasis on the 'we', rather than the 'should'. "We should?" He asked, looking faintly cross-eyed. Shaking his head, he blinked consecutively about twelve times, until he was sure he was back in control of at least a portion of his brain.

Benjy, having given up on his personal math problem, glanced at his watch, which – until that moment – had been entirely forgotten on his wrist. Honestly, someone could have walked up, asked to see the time, taken it, his pants and a few ribs, and he wouldn't have noticed. Tristan wasn't lying when he said it was the good stuff. He honestly couldn't feel a single thing in his body, with the exception of a singularly warm and fuzzy feeling towards the world. It took him another minute to focus his vision enough to read the tiny dials, and about four after that to recognise what they meant.

"I think ma watch iz broked," he mumbled, blinking a few times. "Sez is … almost ten?" He looked to Tristan for verification that his watch had clearly malfunctioned. "We been hur… here for … an hour. Not… five."

Tristan looked around, spotting a small, wall clock just across from them. His eyes narrowed slightly as he tried to focus his vision, with no success. Instead, the already nervous-wreck of a barman saw the glance, and assumed it was for him, hurrying back over to his least appealing customers. "I'm terribly sorry, s-sir," he stammered, his brogue creeping out more distinctly than it would normally have. "I'm sorry, but w-we're out of the Jameson Original, 1959, sir." He fidgeted uncomfortably, honestly expecting a very sharp and sudden reaction out of Tristan.

Instead, the dark haired pureblood glared at him, unmoving. Several paint-staking moments passed by and a thin sheen of sweat because visible on the barman's brow. Tristan's face relaxed, branching into a wide, toothy grin. "D'youknowhatimeis?" he asked, smiling a bit like a loon. The bar tender gave him a terrified look. How do you explain what time is to a drunken man? Tristan blinked again, only opening one eye as he held the other shut tightly, trying to narrow down the number of doubles he was seeing. Surprisingly, a single, quivering man stood before him – a bit hazy around the edges, but that was better than seven hazy images. "Do you…" he paused, shutting both eyes and wobbling slightly, despite the fact that he was sitting down. "Know. What time. It. Is?" he asked again, breaking up the sentence specifically so he would get it right.

"Almost nine fifty, sir," the bar man answered quickly. "At night," he added as a hasty after thought.

Benjy suddenly looked appallingly worried. "Trissan!" he muttered. "I gotta get home, Enn— Enz— Memm—EMME. Emme!" It was the most he could do for the moment. He stood up, quickly, and very promptly fell over, forgetting that the bar stool was a tad higher of the ground than a normal chair. Tristan, from his lofty seat, watching indifferently for a moment before breaking into hysterical laughter – again. From the floor, Benjy struggled to sit up. "I may… have drunk t'much."

With a sigh, and a very graceful move for the amount of liquor he had imbibed, Tristan slid out of his chair, one hand clutching the bar top, the other extended to hoist Benjy off the ground. Without the added leverage of the counter, his attempt would never have succeeded. Using his free hand to steady his now standing friend, he looked up into his face – smirk twitching at the corners of his mouth as he saw the obvious worry. "Benz—" he started slowly, unable to form the 'j' sound. "Em'll be fine. Lessgo." Shaking his head again, he placed one foot firmly in front of the other, checking his balance before letting go of the table. No face-plants for him – so far so good.

Together they somehow managed to awkwardly stumble to the door of the bar, fiddling confusedly with the handle for a moment before they remembered to pull, rather than push as they had when they came in. Laughing, they tripped over the threshold, crawling slowly up the stairs and collapsing in a heap at the top, laughing at the hilarity of their predicament, which – though they were still incapable of physically amending, they were slowly starting to recognise. With a groan and another snicker, Tristan grabbed the black metal railing, still warm from the earlier day and hoisted himself back up. There was a terrifying moment when he hung precariously on to the bar, teetering backwards and forwards, and almost slipped back into the gulley of a stairwell that they had just crawled out of it. While it wasn't a particularly fatal drop, it would most certainly not have been pleasant.

Before he could slide one way or the other, however, a large, strong hand shot out and grabbed the back of his jacket, pulling him firmly back towards the safety of the open alley. The resulting groan, from Benjy meant that Tristan fell short of the cobblestones by several feet, and had actually landed on his friend. Opening his eyes, Tristan looked straight down – and found himself staring straight at Benjy's mouth. It would have been an acceptable situation, for him, at least, if it weren't for the intolerable amount of alcohol he had consumed. As it was, he was half-tempted to lean in and have a little sampling, especially given the deliciously rye aroma that wafted between them. Closing his eyes, he breathed it in slowly, nothing the smooth texture that was actually probably just a memory. Jameson whiskey, original flavour… vintage 1959: it was perfect.

"Avery? What the bloody hell are you doing?" a high-pitched feminine voice cut through the silence like a fork on glass. Tristan cupped his hands to his ears as he rolled off Benjy, hitting the ground with a thud as he winced at the ringing in his head. Beside him, Benjy just groaned uncomfortably, tilting his head from side to side.

Out of the shadows just down the alley stepped three figures, all cloaked in black. To any normal person it would have been freaking creepy – to two drunk wizards lolling about on the pavement, the sudden appearance of the three wraiths was only mildly confusing, and that was all. It was the angry voice born by the wraiths that made them sit up and pay attention. "Avery," the middle one commanded in irate, but velvet tones. "Get up. Now."

Tristan, squinting his eyes and shaking his head stood up, forcing himself to his feet, managing with only a few faint stumbles here and there. Blinking, he tried to stave off the fog that had clouded his senses.

"What the hell is this?" the third voice asked, decidedly more deep and gravely than the first two. Beneath their cloaks they were still unrecognisable, though Benjy felt the detailed shadows that spiralled across the lower half of their faces seemed oddly familiar in some unknown regard.

The first voice – just as grating as it had been when it first spoke, coming out of the darkness like some ghoulish apparition – piped up again. "I don't believe it… they're both sodding drunk!" The words were barely out of her mouth when the middle figure stormed forward, arm outstretched before pulling back slightly, and the reeling forward.

Tristan, who had been otherwise immobile by the staircase, went spinning into a brick wall – hitting the façade with a heavy thump and sliding down the hard stone. A weak and pitiful cry was his only retaliation as lay curled against the cold ground, face contorted in a mask of pain.

"We give you one simple task and this is how you do it?" the third voice asked, fury evident in the bitter growl.

Benjy looked up, blinking as he tried to focus on what was happening. There were people. They hurt Tristan. They hurt his friend. Simple thoughts were all he could handle, but that was honestly all he needed. With a groan, he rolled over, forcing himself to his feet. "Hey!" he called out, voice husky with the amount of whiskey he had consumed. "Don't touch him," he commanded, a bit more pertinently than he would have when his inhibitions were at full capacity. "Who are you? Leave us alone."

"Typical Hufflepuff," the female voice replied, causing Benjy to wince. "As ignorant as always." Stepping forward again, she threw back her hood, blue eyes glittering unmercifully. Sleek black hair curled around her pale white face, made all the translucent by the horrible lighting. Even in that dark alleyway, she was still unmistakable – and Benjy silently kicked himself for not guessing from the voice. No one else sounded that impersonally cruel – no one but Bellatrix Lestrange. He could only wait, horrified, as the figure on the far right stepped forward, throwing his hood back as well. Unlike Bellatrix, Rodolphus had no need for mocking commentary – the glittering evil in his dark eyes was statement enough. Benjy had no doubts about the pale, demon-like face that was hidden from view beneath the middle cloak.

But that didn't stop Lucius from revealing himself. "Benjy," he greeted – though it was more of a taunt. "It's been a long time."

"Not nearly long enough," Benjy replied, forcing the effects of the alcohol out of his head. Of all the nights to get unreasonably drunk – of all the nights to stumble across three of his honest-to-God worst enemies, of all the coincidences. Hearing Tristan groan, his head turned quickly to his injured friend. The trio's little show had distracted him, but the only thing coursing through his intoxicated mind now was getting to Tristan, making sure he was okay, checking to see if everything was alright.

He had barely lifted his foot in the air before an invisible force wrapped itself tightly around him, binding him to the spot. "Ah, ah, ah," that velvety voice reprimanded. Benjy didn't need to turn to know who it was anymore. "I don't think you actually want to help him." There was a brief pause in his speech while Benjy fought madly against the magical restrains, only hesitating when he realise they got together with each struggle. "After all, he is the one who betrayed you."

Haze or no haze, he could believe it – wouldn't believe it. This was Lucius Malfoy for Merlin's sake, the man who said absolutely anything to manipulate the people around him, even his so-called friends, into doing his bidding. It had to be a lie, Tristan wouldn't have done this to him. Tristan was a good man. They were friends.

"Still don't believe me, I see."

The more Benjy listened, the more infuriating that voice became. He started wriggling again. It took a lot to piss off Benjy Fenwick – he was a fairly even-tempered person, but there were always exceptions for even the most constant people. For him, it was unfounded mistreatment of himself, or anyone for that matter. Lucius and his cohorts were the epitome of the few things he detested, and quite honestly always had been. Now, as Tristan lay in an unmoving heap, his blood was boiling. They had never given their house-mate the credit he deserved, never treated him with any respect, never even given him a moment's peace. Benjy had seen some of the scars – physical evidence of the violence Bellatrix had inflicted on him. He was also sure that if mental brutality left any marks, he would be littered in those as well from Lucius himself. Now they were trying to convince him – one of the few people that had been willing to recognise Tristan's good nature – that he had literally handed Benjy over to them? And completely incapacitated to boot? It was insanity.

"Let me enlighten you," Lucius whispered, wand twirling deftly between his fingers as the bonds choked tighter around Benjy's body until movement became a physical impossibility and he was completely restrained, and facing his assailant. "Consider this: that you somehow managed to get off of your miserable job at the Ministry an hour early – an event which has, after four years, never happened. You stumble into an old friend who, strangely, invites you out somewhere, and then manages to drag you here. Coincidence that the three of us were waiting in the shadows? I think not." The last three words were painfully articulated. "But if you don't believe me… why don't you ask him yourself?"

To his left, Benjy could hear Tristan's hushed plea, begging Bella to leave him there – but of course she was going to do nothing of the kind. With a soft iziiing/i, an invisible chain wrapped Tristan and dragged him, scraping across the ground to sit at Bella's feet. He didn't look up, his face was turned away from Benjy and he refused to turn around. "Now, now, Tristan," she cooed, "dear Benjy has a question for you. That off retracting noise whirred around them as Tristan was forced to his feet, Bella's wand pointed at his neck and her other hand firmly ensnared in his hair, forcing him to look at Benjy.

What Benjy saw gutted him, leaving him completely hollow. In those wide, expressive emerald depths he saw fear, but nothing else. His face was blank, no pity, no jest, nothing. More importantly, there was nothing to contradict the things that Lucius had said.

"Go on, Benjy. Ask Tristan if he waltzed you here without a second thought. Ask him if he betrayed you, if he betrayed your beloved Emmeline. Ask him if he brought you like a lamb to the slaughter." Every word dripped from Lucius's mouth like poison, but they barely registered. Benjy's eyes were locked on Tristan's face. "Go on," Lucius coaxed, honey-sweet venom filling the air.

He could have sworn the alcohol was trying to kick in again, but this wasn't just the haze. Beyond the sudden new cloudiness, which was remarkably cold – not at all warm like the whiskey had been – there was deep, rumbling voice. It sounds like continental plates grating furiously against one another in his head, coercing him – commanding him – to ask the question, to look at Tristan and ask if was really responsible. Again, it taunted him – ask, it demanded! But Benjy refused to acquiesce. He believed Tristan was innocent, regardless of what his lying eyes had suggested. The empty pit of his stomach, too – it was just his mind playing trick, unable to focus on the truth. Tristan couldn't have possibly done such a thing to him, to anyone. He wouldn't have. They were friends. The voice got louder, gravelled tone scraping in his head as is instructed him, ordering him to cooperate. 'Obey me!' it yelled.

But Benjy would not listen. Only one voice belonged in his head, and that was his own. Anything else was just an illusion, a trick of the alcohol trying to convince him of things that were not true. Tristan was innocent – perfectly innocent. Innocent until proven guilty. "Tristan?" His voice had shot up an octave on the last syllable of his friend's name, completely involuntarily. It was that stupid voice, playing with his head; it had been an accident. But it still sounded like a question.

Lucius smiled, stormy eyes shining madly as turned to Tristan. Beside him, Rodolphus was fuming, though he hid his fury at being defied in his silence and tense posture. "Well, Tristan – don't be rude. Did you or did you not bring him here to die?" Unable to move between the collective force of Bellatrix with Tristan and Lucius magically ensnaring Benjy, neither of them had any escape. Benjy was forced to meet Tristan's gaze, no longer filled with fear – only silently resigned. There was no escape from the truth. Tristan watched Benjy's face change from resilient, to confused, to hurt, to nothing in the space of a few short seconds. It was a worthy expression, considering how the gaping hole in his gut had suddenly spread – he couldn't feel anything anymore. It was like the alcohol had taken over again, only this time he knew it was the whiskey and not someone trying to toy with him, because of the dull warmth that radiated everywhere. It was relaxing, calming almost. It felt like a distant ray of sunshine.

Tristan cried out again as Bella magically hurled him against the same wall, but exactly as before, he refused to budge, curling his legs to his chest and barely moving but for the sharp rise and fall of his chest as he breathed. Not a sound escaped his lips after that.

"So this is it then?" Benjy asked, jumping into the foray before Lucius would say anything else. "You and your lap dogs—" Bellatrix snarled viciously. "—are going to rip me apart, while I'm bound and completely helpless. Some wizard you are. Too much of a coward for a fair fight, let alone an armed opponent." He should have expected pain, unending amounts of unbearable pain, but it wasn't forthcoming.

The sinister quiet of Lucius's soft laughter was perhaps more frightening than the image of the three of them standing there. "On the contrary, my dear Benjy…" He was being patronising again. "Not that you'll believe me, of course, but it had been my intention all along to grant you such a merciful request." Benjy's eyes narrowed suspiciously. "In fact, I suppose I can prove it to you." The magical restraints that held him up suddenly vanished, and Benjy tilted dangerously to the side before he could convince his feet to move again, catching himself at the last second. In a move that was more reflex than him actually thinking, he had drawn his wand, and was levelling it at Lucius's face.

"So now what, as soon as I beat you, your cronies come in and take me out?" As if to emphasise his point, Benjy felt a dead weight sink into the side of his face as if someone had struck him with a lead glove. He spun to the side, arcing none-too-gracefully through the air and landing against the metal railing of the stairwell with a huff. It was a strange sensation, the sudden pressure, then hurtling through the air, followed by a sick crunching sound that could have been one or two ribs, he wasn't sure. This time pain was inevitable – broken bones weren't scratches, he should be writing and screaming in agony.

But surprisingly – he wasn't. It was as if the alcohol's pain killer effects had kicked in at the very last moment, his very own supply of morphine. Anything Lucius did to him now he wouldn't be able to feel, regardless of how much suffering it should have caused. Adrenaline and Irish whiskey had made him immune to the feeling – even if his fate was still completely inevitable.

Bellatrix was standing just ahead of Lucius, wand outstretched and pointed directly at Benjy, eyes flaring with a madness that he could only bring himself to pity her. Her shoulders shook with restraint, but he guessed it wasn't her will alone that was keeping her wand at bay. Moments later Lucius's dangerously calm voice surrounded then again. "Bella, please. I believe we've discussed – this is my fight," he reminded her gently, not scolding, but with enough authority to make her lower her wand and step back, scowling.

With a coy smile, Lucius took another step towards him, confident to show that he wasn't afraid and calculating to show that this wasn't going to be easy. He wasn't aware of Benjy's little advantage, and even had he been, Benjy doubted it would have made a shred of difference. Lucius wasn't interested in the immediate kill – that would have been far too easy. No, Benjy had given him something of a different idea with one of his earlier comments. Why kill someone right away when you can enjoy ripping them apart – delay the gratification, as it were? He settled into a duelling stance, silver eyes locked on his target.

Benjy's eyes narrowed defensively. He didn't trust any of them for a minute, but he figured as long as Lucius was winning, the others wouldn't jump in and attack him. Not that it mattered very much, Benjy knew he was a good wizard, but Lucius Malfoy was pure evil, and had an arsenal of dangerous, dark spells to use against him. Benjy only knew the basics of what he'd learned in his defence class and the few things he'd picked up working for the Order. But as far as he was concerned, it didn't matter how the fight ended, his fate seemed inevitable. Of course, he was hoping that he could take just a little bit of the evil in the world out with him, but he no longer held out any hope for himself.

Lucius's wand was moving before Benjy had even settled. This was it then. A sharp, slashing motion was the only hint he gave. A shield charm slipped off Benjy's lips, but a moment too late. He could feel dull objects slicing through his shirt, cutting down into the flesh. Crimson pooled out against the white, staining in various places across his chest. He could feel the weight of more, small cuts on his face, and the heat of blood trickling down – but still there was no pain. He supposed he should have reacted a bit more to the fact that his blood was slowly exiting his body in a hundred different places, but without the hurt – the blood just didn't seem important.

An unfortunate side-effect to the alcohol was a certain degree of physical incapacity. His reflexes were shot, which was a disappointment for someone who – as a Chaser – had relied on such spontaneity to carry him through a game. Even following the slicing pattern of Lucius's wand was difficult, he couldn't focus. His brain couldn't see far enough in to the fog that was impairing his thoughts to judge what might be coming next. His only relief was the knowledge that even if he had been in top form, and able to take out Lucius in a fair fight, the other two wouldn't have given him the time to turn around. As depressing as the situation was – Benjy was not a pessimist. Yes, he may have been about to die. Yes, there may have been very little he could do about it, but he sure as hell wasn't going to sit there and just let it happen. He was going to give Lucius Malfoy the hardest fight of his life while he still had the life and breath to do so, and hoped that, if he tried hard enough, it would come to something.

With one hand he reached up rub the warm wet lines out of his eyes, realising as his blood just smeared across his arm that trying to wipe it away wasn't going to do him any good. At least, from what he could tell of the cute on his arms, they were all very thin and shallow – they gave off the illusion that he was bleeding more than he really was. At the moment, there was nothing, except for maybe that cracked rib, that was really wrong with him.

Over his crimson and white arm, he could see the frown on Bellatrix's face. She was obvious infuriated that he hadn't fallen over clutching his face and body, howling with the misery that was suddenly cast upon him. She wanted to hear the screaming, the mad shrieking, and the begging for mercy. His indifference to his injuries was almost mocking – to her, at least. Her voyeuristic part in this adventure wasn't over until the Hufflepuff was singing his lungs out, or until they were literally outside of his body.

He could still feel points of pressure all over his body, quickly followed by the sudden escape of warmth from under his skin. It left him feeling strangely mottled, like he a swamp of various festering temperatures, unable to decide which one was adequate for total survival. The lazy arcs that Lucius traced gracefully with his wand, however, were beginning to get annoying – even more than the feeling that someone was chuckling little pebbles at him. Taking his mind away from his new injuries, he laid all his focus into one thought – the strongest shield charm he could image. On his best day, it would have been a very worthy effort on his part. Today – it was a shadow of what he could really do. Between the dizziness that was slowly creeping up on him and the fog that was already overwhelming his thoughts, there was little room for concentration, despite his best efforts. Still – he was a Hufflepuff – and effort was precisely what he and his housemates did best.

Forcing all of the magical energy he could into that one moment, he thrust the aura out of his wand, relieved as he felt the sudden burst of energy, and the safe-feeling he got when a shield charm encompassed him. It may not last forever, but I would serve to distract Lucius for now, while he could recover his other thoughts and try to decide what to do next.

Unfortunately for him – maintaining such a powerful charm required all of his attention. He couldn't afford to divide his focus between two subjects, but neither could he concentrate all of his energy on one detail. Without single-minded dedication to the thought, his shield was weak – and one heavy blow could have easily crumpled it like an aluminium can.

And apparently Lucius was very much aware of that. A surge of energy ripped through his shield, shredding it as the bolt caught him in the chest, hurling him brutally against the stone wall behind him, leaving various other scrapes and scratches as he slid down the hard bricks. More pressure – but not even a tender ache to go with it. At this point, Benjy was rather beginning to like this sort of invincibility – incredibly thankful that he couldn't feel any of the injury being inflicted upon him. Yet again, he struggled to his feet – pushing himself up on elbows and wrists, using anything around him for a support as he stumbled forward to face Malfoy again. There weren't going to get the satisfaction of hearing him scream. He wasn't going to give in by kneeling when he knew he could stand. It didn't matter how powerful they were, how smart he was, how sane she should have been, how quietly dangerous he could be – Benjamin Fenwick knew he was stronger than they were, and he was going to use his last dying breath to prove it.

The thing was – Lucius Malfoy did not take well to being defied. He, though not so much a sadist as Bella, was rather looking forward to the pleas for mercy and the sad, miserable, begging faces. At the moment, Benjy's staunch martyr attitude was making him nauseous. If the man didn't want to cave in to his superiority, then Lucius would very deliberately force him to do so. For someone who was supposed to be from the house of humility, Benjy was being obstinately proud. It was time to fix that.

Extending his wand like a whip, he cast it around Benjy – sending the invisible wire behind him, and ripping through the tendons just below his knee caps. If the former Hufflepuff was so determined to stand up, Lucius had no qualms about making sure he could only do it from the knees up.

For Benjy, it was an odd feeling. Sort of like having a carpet ripped out from under your feet, and then not being able to use those feet anymore. He tried, of course, to force himself back on feet, but his legs just gave out beneath him, twisting awkwardly and making disturbing ripping noises that added to his dizziness. It was grotesque, the way his legs crumbled underneath him, but he gripped the metal railing of the stairwell and dragged himself up, anyway. It almost felt like he was floating, after a fashion. Kneeling on a cloud, rather than drops of blood and his own twisted ligaments.

It was obvious where Lucius was going with his sickening little scheme. After a few select strokes, the human body could be contorted into any shape or form the person in command wanted it to. Naturally, he has used various spells to this effect before, making the person bend, rather than giving them the necessary incentive to do so. The fact that Benjy was so grotesquely unwilling to submit to Rodolphus's mind control meant that similar charms were out of the question – though Lucius had no doubt of his mental superiority to the younger Slytherin. Besides – there would be something so much more satisfying in seeing Fenwick bend of his own free will, and that was something Lucius could very easily help him with. Pointing his wand delicately at Benjy's torso, he smiled softly.

This was new. This was different. This was decidedly not good. The warmth was one thing – he was very much beginning to like the dull, but balmy feeling that had radiated through-out his body. This was something more. The warmth was more than just lukewarm, and seemed to centre in his torso. Every second it got hotter, building within his chest until it was a veritable flame, licking at his organs. There was no real hurt in it, but the heat was immense. The pressure filled his chest like an iron wall, collapsing his lungs building up an unimaginable weight. Wheezing, he smacked himself in the chest, still conscious enough to notice the localised numbness of his earlier cuts. Try as he might, there was no dislodging whatever it was Lucius had done. At least – there was nothing physical to be done. As he tipped forward, dragging oxygen through his mouth, to what seemed like no avail, he shifted his wand hand towards Lucius. Thank Merlin he knew non-verbal spells, because he wouldn't have been able to form the actual words. A burst of orange sparks leapt out of his wand, taking Lucius a bit by surprise. His reflexes were fast enough that he was able to shield from the physical force of Benjy's attack, but the singed spots on his cloak was proof that Benjy had managed to land something at least. And not only that, but now he could breathe.

Panting slightly, Benjy straightened up as much as he could, which all things considered was not overly much. His fingers clutched his wand, trying to force together the energy to throw another spell at him as soon as he was distracted. Judging by the furious look in Lucius's eyes – that wasn't going to be any time soon.

He was fuming, and not like a bruised ego sort of fury that easily lost its flare. This was a vindictive sort of anger that wouldn't be assuaged until he had been provided with the necessary blood sacrifice. And he knew just where he wanted it to come from. His silver eyes narrowed, turning a deep, stormy grey as the rage built up within his mind. Jerking his wand sharply from left to right and then right to left, Benjy's face mimicked the movement as though it had been Lucius's hand, and not air the slapped him. Stepping closer, Lucius took a knee in front of his victim. "You know… sometimes it's better not to fight." His tone was dangerously low, but Benjy seemed too dazed to have really noticed. There was only so much pressure and blood-loss before things started getting blurry all around.

Reaching out with his wand, Lucius stroked the top of Benjy's hand lightly. The strange feeling woke the other man up a tad, bringing him out of the haze that had very nearly engulfed him. Immediately, he moved to put his wand between him and the bane of his existence, mind running through a list of spells that could be beneficial against the demon in front of his face. Yet again, before any full incantation could form in his mind, a blinding force hit him from the side, knocking him over and wrenching him away from the metal frame he had been using for support. Instinctively, he threw out his hands to stop himself from face planting on the cold pavement. His fall was all the time Lucius needed.

With a wickedly cruel smile, he traced a line over Benjy's wand hand, just at the base of his fingers, and all the way around to his thumbs. Of course, Benjy jerked his hand and wand back quickly, forcing himself to pull it together and scramble away from this hell that he had suddenly found himself in. A little space was all he needed, just a little room to manoeuvre, to turn around and use his wand before Lucius could hit him again. As he flipped over, eagerly lifting his wand and levelling it at Lucius's face he noticed two very important things – the first being that his wand was no longer in his hand, and secondly, that he wasn't even sure you could call it a hand anymore. His face contorted into an expression of horror as he recognised the macabre little pile of fleshy digits where his hand had been only moments ago. To add to his horror, his wand – his lovely, beautiful wand which had served him so well throughout his life as cradled in Malfoy's outstretched palm.

A less optimistic man would have politely requested that Lucius stop playing with him then, and get it over with. Now that his ability to defend himself was quite literally gone, there seemed little point in going any further. Benjamin Fenwick was no such person – Lucius could take anything he wanted: his life, his fingers, his wand – none of them mattered in comparison to the one thing he would not give that blond haired son of a bitch. He could torture him, he could humiliate him, he could rob him of any chance to hide from the horrors that he was being subjected to – but Lucius could not take his mind away from him. Until the moment his heart gave out, when his lungs ceased to fill with air, he would resist, and if that didn't show the jackass how much of a hypocritical bastard he was, then nothing would.

"You know, Benjy," Lucius began calmly, twirling the former Hufflepuff's wand around in his fingers. "The Dark Lord is under the impression that, in this world, there is nothing worse than death." He watched Fenwick's face carefully, looking for any sign of breakage of weakness. Benjy just stared back with black, expressionless eyes. "I think I disagree with him…" behind them Bellatrix offered a small gasp of shock, which Lucius pointedly ignored. "If there is anything worse than death… I believe it would have to be dying." His wand whipped out towards Benjy's face again.

Benjy reached up with his left hand, tenderly assessing the four deep gouge marks in the side of his face. They had felt like four fingers, dragging weightlessly across his cheek – but the warm blood that slowly trickled into his mouth proved they were no such thing. He blinked slowly, trying to open his eyes. Either his double vision was gone, or something was wrong. He couldn't see out of his left eye. To be honest – he wasn't even sure if he had a left eye anymore.

* * *

"Andy – tell me I'm being paranoid," Emmeline demanded as she paced in front of the sink. She had been periodically glancing out the darkening kitchen window and waiting for the sound of a soft pop all afternoon, and now – well after dusk, she was getting incredibly anxious. Benjy Fenwick was a very reliable man. He rarely went elsewhere after work, preferring to come home and spend time with his lovely girlfriend. In the event that he did go out, he never failed to leave her a note or some other explanation as to his whereabouts. This inexplicable disappearance was decidedly not Benjy's style.

Andromeda Tonks watched her best friend carefully. Emmeline was supposed to be the bubbly, cheerful one – not her, and yet here she was in need of a desperate role reversal. She wasn't much for optimism in general, but in situations like this, where her friend obviously needed her, buoyancy and hopefulness were her forte. "I'm sure he's fine," she soothed from her place at the kitchen table. She had already tried to convince Emme to sit and just have a cup of tea about eight times, and everyone had ended in Emme launching herself off the edge of her seat to run to the door because some idiot squirrel dropped a nut on the roof. Honestly – stupid buggers – didn't they realise she was trying to settle an emotional crisis here?

To be honest, Andy was just as worried as Emme was, though this was not the time to show it. This behaviour was incredibly off for Benjy, and it didn't help that both he and Emme were members of Dumbledore's personal dark arts resistance team, the Order of the Phoenix. The possibility that something morbid could have happened to Benjy was very real, though she tried to keep those thoughts out of her head, for Emme's sake. "He probably just got caught up at work, and lost track of the time." It was rare that she got to put the skills she learned from her family to use, but now she geared all of her actions toward comforting reassurance.

Emmeline stared blankly into the darkness. "Of course… you're probably right." Her eyes were oddly out of focus, but Andy wasn't all that surprised. She had been staring out of that window on and off for over five hours, with very little change. It was amazing to see the devotion Emmeline and Benjy had for one another. Actually, it was a bit surprising that they hadn't gotten married yet, or at least gotten engaged. They were the perfect, most adorable couple she had ever seen – and if they ever split up… she didn't know what she would do. She supposed it had something to do with Benjy's old-fashioned sense of goodness, which, while simultaneously being one of his best traits, could be a bit annoying at times. He was exactly the sort of person who would refuse to get married while he was at risk of being—she didn't want to think the word. If there were a possibility that something could happen to him, not that it ever would, it would devastate Emme. Benjy would never risk hurting her anymore than he already would.

"Probably still at work," she repeated, not really hearing the words she was saying. Suddenly, her stormy eyes lit up as she wheeled around. "Of course! I'll just ask Fabian! He and Benj see each other after work all the time, he would know if he stuck around!" Immediately she launched herself across the room, seizing some dust from a pot by the wide fireplace. Kneeling down quickly, she prodded the old ash and dried wood into a roaring fire with her wand before casting the powder across the flames. They flared a very brilliant shade of a green for a moment, before settling into a gentle lime colour. Without hesitation, Emme shoved her face right up to the flames and called out Fabian's name several times before settling back a bit, waiting for him to answer.

From the table, Andy could see the way Emme's shoulders shook – and knew it wasn't with excitement. Rather than focus on the negative possibilities, she focused her mind on the good answers, things she wanted to hear Fabian say. They were just being dramatic. Benjy was probably worried about one of the Ministry owls and was too preoccupied to take time away to send a message. Everything was fine. There was no need to be worried.

The fact that she had to keep repeating it to herself only made her nauseous.

After a brief pause, a handsome young man's face appeared in the flames, eyes wide as he searched the room and saw Emmeline kneeling in front of him, and Andy off to the side. "Em?" he asked cautiously. "What's wrong?" Clever Fabian – he could sense the smallest hint of doubt in any room, whether he was actually physically there or not.

"I was wondering if you ran into Benjy after work today?" Emmeline asked in what she hoped was a casual tone, but actually came out in something of a rush.

"No, not after work," he answered with a frown. "He left early – said he was going home. Why? Has he not gotten back yet?"

The look on Emmeline's face was all the answer he needed. She sat there, immobile – she might not have been breathing she was so still. The glimmer in her eyes was one of such terror, Fabian wished he could immediately rescind everything he had said and tell her some painlessly trivial lie while he instigated a search party. As it was, the truth was out – and Emme looked like she was about to faint. Andy slid out of the chair to her side, on the floor, wrapping both arms around her. "Em, I'm sure he's fine. We'll probably find him at one of his friends' places, and he can laugh at you for being a control freak." It was a horrible joke, but if it lightened her mood at all, there was no harm in trying. Unfortunately, her face remained dispassionately empty.

"This isn't like him, Em – but I'm sure he's with someone. I'll check with Dal and get back to you, you just sit tight and don't worry about it." Fabian's face disappeared from the flames with a soft puff of smoke, leaving a strangely lonely feeling in the room.

Rubbing her hands up and down Emme's arms to create friction, Andy launched herself whole-heartedly into her schemes for reassurance. "You heard Fabian – there's nothing to worry about. That bum, Benjy – I'll bet he's hiding at Dal's house and just forgot. Hufflepuffs," she scoffed, "they can be so dense sometimes." Smiling cheerfully, she watched Em's face for any sign of change, and disappointingly found none. She continued to massage Emme's back lightly, but kept the remainder of her comments to herself since they didn't seem to be getting through.

Moments later a loud pop made them both jump half a mile in the air. One of their other good friends, Hestia Jones, sprinted around the table and slid to the ground on the other side of Emme. "Oh, Emm—" she murmured, "I was talking to Fab, is everything alright? What exactly happened?"

Emmeline bit her lip, still staring intently at the flame. She opened her mouth slowly, before closing it again – repeating the process several times before Andy laid a reassuring hand on hers and took over the story. "She expected Benj to be home just after five, y'know like usual, but he still hasn't showed up. We thought maybe he stayed late a work, but Fabian said he left early with the intention of coming home. Fabian's asking Dal if he's seen him now, but – we're all still a little worried sometimes."

Hestia jumped right in where Andy had left off on the consolation bandwagon. Being a fellow member of the Order of the Phoenix, she understood the risk they were all at simply for having such an allegiance, but she didn't mention the fact. She was a very happy optimist, for all her blunt truths, and she immediately attempted to convince Emme of the unlikelihood of anything bad happening.

"Honestly, he's probably with Dal," she muttered. "You know those Hufflepuffs, they can be so thick when they're together, never paying attention to the time. I wouldn't be surprised if they got caught up in one of Dal's inventions and got too excited to eat or drink, much less remember to drop a note by home. Don't worry, love – Fabian will find out. You'll see!"

"I told you!" Andy chirped in. "It's always safe to blame the Hufflepuffs. Ted is responsible for anything and everything that happens at our house."

"Even the broken glassware?" Hestia asked with a slightly raised eyebrow.

Andromeda had the grace to blush lightly as she answered. "No, not the glassware. That one was definitely all me."

"So you see, Ems—" Hestia commenced again, "There's really nothing to worry about. We can go over there and give them an earful as soon as Fabian gets back to you." She smiled broadly, white teeth glittering in the odd firelight.

Emmeline looked up at her, eyes still frozen with fear, but slightly more at ease than before. At least now she was breathing, and rather evenly, all things considered. "You're probably right… I'm just being delusional. Overbearing." She reached up to tuck a loose strand of her soft, gold curls out of her face and behind her ear, oblivious to the fact that her hand was shaking.

Seconds later Fabian's head reappeared in the flames, but the sombre tone of his voice did not bode well. "Em. Dal's at home, he hasn't seen Benj since he left work this afternoon." The blunt delivery may have been a bit cruel, but in the brief moment that he'd been away he decided that since it was Emmeline who would firstly know that he was lying and the secondly proceed to skin him alive, it was just safer to avoid all the unnecessary confrontation.

"When did he leave, Fabian?" Emmeline asked, face blank and tone hollow.

"Around four."

"That was more than five hours ago."

Fabian's face floated awkwardly in the flames through the tense silence as he, Hestia and Andy stared at Emmeline, waiting for a reaction – any type of reaction. The longer the silence, the more tense the atmosphere became. "Emmeline?" Fabian's voice called out to her from the flames. Emmeline just looked like she was going to pass out. Andy steadied her with both arms.

"Em?" she asked, shaking her gently. "Emme?" Her brow furrowed as she watched. "Emmeline – honey – are you alright?" Emmeline shook her head back and forth slowly.

Echoing from deep within the fireplace, a second voice – higher and more obviously feminine than Fabian's – broke through the stillness, shouting as it drew closer. "Fabian! Fabian, where are you? There's been an attack!"

Fabian's deep tenor responded immediately: "Who is it, Marlene?"

"We don't know," the disembodied voice answered from the other side of the connection. "Remus said the Lestranges were involved, but that's the only information he had before I apparated out here."

The silence that followed was deafening. Everyone in the room understand the gravity of Marlene's message. There were a large number of witches and wizards involved in You-Know-Who's army, most of whom were just ordinary people who got mixed up with the wrong crowd. There were a select few, however, the Lestranges among them, who were rumoured to be You-Know-Who's personal servants. It was common knowledge that when those two were involved, it meant that Voldemort wanted someone eliminated – and immediately. Usually the Lestranges were reserved for very powerful opponents, direct threats to the regime – important Ministry officials… not Benjamin Fenwick.

Marlene's voice cut through the stillness again, "Fabian, we have to go!"

Emmeline shocked everyone by speaking first. "Where is it, Marlene?"

"A small pub a few streets down from the Ministry, Drayrah Lane."

"We'll meet you there." Emmeline answered as she shoved herself off the floor, grabbing her wand. Calling over her shoulder to Andy, she sprinted to the small side-door that led to the now dark garden. "Andy – stay here? In case… if Benjy comes back, tell him we're out doing work for the Order." She vanished with a pop before she even crossed the threshold.

* * *

Lucius observed his handiwork quietly as Bellatrix's magic supported the bleeding, broken – but somehow miraculously alive body of Benjamin Fenwick. Moments like these made being in the Dark Lord's service feel like an honour, to be allowed to personally remove mudbloods from wizarding society. Personally, he thought he had done a rather good job. Benjy was literally in tatters. He had lost the ability to speak a long time ago, but there was nothing to diminish that defiant sparkle in his one eye. His face was mangled, his body was shredded. Magic was the only thing holding him up, and in all likelihood, magic was the only thing keeping him alive.

"You know, Fenwick… if there really is a hereafter, you should come back. Let me know that I was right." Placing the tip of his wand over Benjy's heart, Lucius smirked cruelly.

In his head, Benjy was almost fully conscious, though pain still evaded him. To be honest, he was rather happy. It didn't matter what Lucius did to him now. True – he felt miserably for Emmeline, and the hurt he knew this would cause her, but so many other things had been achieved this night – things that far surpassed the worth of his own life. One thing, in particular, stood out to him. Throughout the senseless torture Lucius had subjected him to, he had let his mind drift elsewhere, considering the truth of Tristan's betrayal.

Tristan had known, before this day had even happened that his death was inevitable. Yes, Tristan had brought him here – led the lamb to the slaughter and what not. But he had also provided the little white lamb with the only plausible talisman against Lucius's sadism, before he had turned him over to the wolves. For Tristan, Benjy realised, he had done the only thing he thought possible under the circumstance. Benjy would never blame Tristan for being terrified of those three bullies – he wasn't the first and he assuredly wouldn't be the last. It would be a step against nature for Tristan to even try, and that was something Benjy could never ask of him. To walk liberated in his own home knowing another person had sacrificed their most beloved possession to put you there, that was nothing something Benjy could live with. All things considered, this was one hell of a nice way to go, fighting for the things that he most cared for, and more importantly – believing in them through it all.

Seconds later the alley way was rocked with the force of the explosion from Lucius's wand. The only evidence that remained of what had happened was the blood on the ground, barely noticeable in the dark alley, and the occasional chunk that hadn't been destroyed.

Considering their work complete, Bellatrix, Lucius and Rodolphus dragged their hood back up and vanished into the shadows.

Still next to the wall that he had originally been chucked into, Tristan lingered behind, staring at the bloody remnants. In the distance, he could hear footfall pounding just outside the alley. Biting his lip and shaking his head, he vanished with a soft pop.

* * *

She had hit the asphalt running, straight from her own kitchen to the alley just outside the Ministry. Apparition was difficult if you didn't know exactly where you were going, so she started from a street she knew and just kept running until she saw the right corner post. Fabian, Marlene, Hestia and Dedalus Diggle were right behind her, racing along the street. Emme made it around the corner before the rest of the gang, she didn't stop running until she got the end of the alley, and turned around faced with a solid brick wall. Slowly, she walked back to the others, who seemed to be gathered around something.

"What's going on? Marlene, there's no one here." She glanced at each of their faces, following their gazes downwards.

Fabian, Dal, Hestia and Marlene were focused on the largest puddle of carnage, the blood steal congealing on the street. "Someone was," Marlene answered quietly. They all winced as they looked around, noticing other macabre fragments scattered throughout the alley.

Emmeline turned away again, unable to stomach the site of the blood splattered on the wall. Being a member of the Order had led to some rather gruesome discoveries, but her stomach seemed unable to handle this one in particular. Walking away from her friends, she noticed something glint in the darkness, catching the light from the streetlamp at the corner and reflecting it back vibrantly. While the group behind her discussed the attack in whispered voices about the potential identity of the victim (they wouldn't know until Remus returned with the results of the head check), she walked forward.

Behind her, Remus Lupin apparated beside them, deeper in the alleyway. Four faces immediately turned to look at him, but Emmeline refused, and instead bent over, picking up the small glittering object from the ground.

"Well, Remus?" Hestia asked, voice quiet, but strained. "Who was it?"

Remus glanced at Emmeline sadly, voice low as he answered. "Benjy Fenwick."

Emmeline didn't hear him. The blood-stained diamond ring in her hand was proof enough.


End file.
